


The Truth of Happiness

by Adry1412, Bennyhatter, BriannaNicole



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Early transition!Daryl, Full transitioned!Rick, M/M, Trans Male Characters, Trans!Rick, trans!daryl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6923185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adry1412/pseuds/Adry1412, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BriannaNicole/pseuds/BriannaNicole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took everyone who ever held him back dying before Daryl could start to come into who he truly is. It takes someone who walks the same path to teach him that happiness is not just confined to fairy tales.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adry

**Author's Note:**

> A three-part collaboration for Hillbilly!

Adry's art goes here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ellis!! I hope you like my drawing hun! ^^ I love u so much!! Good luck and congratulations I love u so so so so so much!!! <3


	2. Benny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so excited I forgot to leave a note!
> 
> This is for Pineapple, who is sweet and amazing and so many other things it's _unreal_. I'm so happy for you, and so happy you're my friend.
> 
> May this path you walk continue you on to never-ending joy, and may those you walk it with prosper as you do.
> 
> Congrats, hillbilly. You truly do have a heart of gold. <3

The thud of his sneakers against the pavement is a comforting thing to Daryl, something he's grown used to, grown to _crave_ , ever since he was fourteen and trying his best to run away from problems he didn't know how to face. He _still_ can't take most of them on – will probably never be able to – but he's older now at least. Wiser. More understanding of himself and the way the world works for people like him.

His shoulder is aching when he slows down at the corner where his street meets the main road. He waits for the light to turn, rotating it and licking the sweat from his upper lip. It's a familiar pain, just like all the rest he's suffered – a life shaped by violence carved into his back and burrowed deeply into muscle. Raking a hand back through his damp air, he steadies his breathing and quiets his thoughts, and when the crossing light grants him passage he jogs across the road, ignoring the grumble of the vehicles as they wait their turn.

He's not that person anymore. That life has no hold over him, not like it once did.

By the time he loops back around to his house, Daryl is slick with sweat and calmer than he'd been when he'd gone out to run. The last hints of the nightmare are fading, burned away by the rising sun that spills into the front hallway through the windows. It warms him and the mahogany-stained hardwood beneath his bare feet, his shoes kicked off to the side in a graceless heap where he usually leaves them. He stretches as he pads into the kitchen, his shoulder popping, and the quick flare of pain makes his lips twitch before the ache fades to something easily ignored after years of practice.

There's a small, ornate mirror in the hallway, and he pauses when he catches his reflection – pale blue eyes and androgynously pretty features; sweaty dark brown hair curling against his temples and clinging at his nape; the thick patch of hair under his arm and the light grey hint of the binder when his sleeveless shirt shifts as his arms come back down.

Daryl pauses with his arms angled awkwardly and turns a little bit to see the edge of the binder, his eyes flicking to his chest and a smile making his thin lips curl softly when the baggy shirt lends to the flatness that he longed to see for _years_ before circumstance finally left him free.

He misses Merle still – dreams of that day, of the stench of gasoline and burned rubber. He can still see the mangled body of the motorcycle in his mind's eye, sunlight playing over gleaming silver and twisted, broken black.

Drunk driving, the report had said – pretty standard for a Dixon, all things given. He'd been dead before the paramedics had arrived, his skull caved in under the weight of the bike he'd babied and been so reckless on, because Merle Dixon was a badass, and so of course he never wore a helmet.

A stupid decision, a stupid turn around a sharp corner, and Daryl's only family was gone. He's left with nightmares now, nightmares and scars and a sense of freedom he'd never truly had when his brother had showed him artificial happiness and told him it was the best he was ever going to get.

_We're Dixons, little sister. We don't get no fairy tale bullshit. S'just our lot in life. Now pick yerself up, Darleena, an' show ol' Merle them pearly whites. Whatchu cryin' for? You got me._

Dropping his arms, Daryl shakes away that particular ghost and steps into the kitchen. His eyes trail to the calendar tacked to the wall beside the fridge, and he grins when he sees the date circled in red. It makes him hurry through grabbing a bottle of water; has him scrambling his eggs a little faster than normal and barely waiting for them to cook fully before he's dumping them onto his plate and shoveling them into his mouth like he hasn't eaten in days.

With his tongue a little burned, he leaves the dishes for afterwards and takes the stairs two at a time, anticipation making his skin tingle when he slips into his bathroom and reaches into the cabinets where he keeps his shots and the sharps container for them.

It's been three months, and he still shakes from excitement and anticipation as he slides the needle into the vial and draws the correct dosage. Three months, and his hands are perfectly steady when he shoves down his jeans and injects himself with the testosterone that has opened a whole new world for him – has allowed bitter, jaded Darleena to heal and grow into quiet, happy Daryl Dixon.

At three months, he's already seeing changes he wasn't expecting; small but definitely _there_ , definitely progress, definitely a step in a direction he never believed he'd travel.

Merle was the last domino, the final checkmate, and as Daryl drops the used needle and syringe into the sharps container, he looks at himself and tilts his head just slightly, smiling at the smatter of stubble crawling up the length of his jaw. The hairs are lighter than he was expecting, still fair enough to be overlooked, but in time that will change.

In time, the last hints of Darleena will fade, and all that will be left is Daryl.

 

\--

 

It's a given that living in a small town in a rural part of Georgia will come with its own set of problems. Daryl learned long ago to keep his head down and mind his own business, but the same cannot be said for everyone else. Bullies and hecklers will exist no matter who you are or where you go, and in King County, which is just a pit-stop dust mote compared to down-the-road-a-ways Atlanta, trouble will often find you no matter how hard you try to avoid it.

The rain started long before Daryl woke up, and with it came the familiar pains that made him long to just curl up in bed or laze around the house doing nothing. He's not a teenager anymore, though, and that is a luxury he can no longer indulge in. He has to work, has to find some way to pay his bills, and he won't risk being unable to afford his shots.

His shoulder gives him problems all day, between the burning pain that makes his fingers twitch and seize as they curl painfully and the unpredictable bouts of numbness that leave him scrambling to hold onto his tools and not drop them on his own feet.

One wrench does get away from him, but luckily he learned long ago that steel-toed boots were the best choice in footwear, so other than the horrendously loud clatter that makes him flinch when it hits the ground, he manages to remain unharmed. He picks up the wrench, ignores the looks from his coworkers, and goes about his day.

Trouble doesn't find him until he's walking home that night, his head down and his arms wrapped around himself in a pitiful effort to preserve warmth. If he hadn't been running late he'd have grabbed a jacket, but there's nothing he can do about it now other than hurry home and think of the wonderfully hot shower that has his name on it.

Daryl knows better than to let himself get distracted when his safety is never a guaranteed thing, but between the steady, aching pain in his shoulder and the downpour that's showing no sign of stopping soon, he's more focused on getting home and less aware of the people around him.

He has no one but himself to blame when the man that shoulder-checks him roughly isn't at all interested in walking away. Neither are his buddies, who gather close and reek of alcohol even through the scent of rain and wet pavement.

"You're Merle Dixon's dyke sister," one of them sneers, and Daryl's fists are already clenched and ready, his blue eyes burning with anger as he looks at the three men and knows that this won't be a fair fight.

He still manages to give them a run for their money before a well-placed fist drives the air from him in a bark of pain, and another blow catches the side of his face and sends him down to his knees. They're laughing and taunting him, their words cruel and their fists even more so, but Daryl has never stood down for men like them, and even with filthy water soaking into his jeans, even with the scrapes and the bruises and the blood dripping from his nose, he peels his lips back to show his bloody teeth and punches the ringleader hard enough in the gut to send him stumbling back with a grunt.

"Why you little b-"

"I'd think very carefully before you finish that sentence, sir. Don't want to add defamation of character to your already extensive list of grievances, do you?"

The voice cracks through the air like a whip, and the fighting comes to an abrupt end as they all turn to see who has showed up to interfere.

Daryl watches the man as he approaches with a slow, easy stride. His senses prickle in response to this newest predator, his eyes taking in the strong jaw thick with stubble and the hard, dark eyes that assess the scene. He's wearing a King County uniform, his hair hidden beneath the hat he's tipped forward to offer some protection from the rain. His stance is easygoing but his shoulders are tight; his hands resting calmly on the buckle of his belt and the gleam of the gun at his side both a warning and a promise.

"What say we all settle this like good, respectable men, and then you boys get on home and sober up," he offers pleasantly, and Daryl feels himself shiver from a coldness that has nothing to do with the rain. There's nothing but pure steel in that voice. "Unless this young man would like to press charges?"

"Nah," Daryl rasps, wiping at his mouth with the side of his wrist and ignoring the sting of his split lip. He spits a bloody mouthful of saliva to the side and stands tall and proud, his head raised the way Merle always taught him and his shoulders pulled back as he meets each man's eyes with a coldness of his own.

Teachers used to accuse the youngest Dixon of having ice in his veins, because no one could be as quiet or as chilly as Daryl when the situation called for it. Even as Darleena, quiet and trying hard not to crack, he never shied away from looking a bully in the eye and sending them slinking home.

This time turns out to be no different, and the men grumble as they slip away with a few more disparaging comments. Daryl watches them go, his chin tilted up and his arms stiff at his sides. Only once the rain has swallowed their shadowy forms does he turn to look at the officer.

"Thanks," he mumbles, because cop or no, this man helped him, and Daryl's mama taught him manners before his daddy beat too much life out of her. "Didn't have ta do that." Rubbing at his face, he feels for the worst of the hurts and rotates his jaw slowly to check his range of movement.

"It's my job, and I would have done it anyway." The man tips his hat back a little, fixing Daryl with a pair of blue eyes that remind him of storm clouds and sapphires, and he feels his breath catch slightly before he drops his head forward and hides behind his bangs.

"Could'a handled 'em." Even though he knows that isn't true, he wants to make it very clear that he is more than capable of taking care of himself. Rubbing his bad shoulder, he glares at the dark, wet bricks of the building beside him, his eyes following the mortar that glues them together. "Had worse, anyway. Can manage a couple'a drunk assholes."

"Doesn't mean you should have to." Stepping closer, the cop tilts his head to catch Daryl's eyes again, and when he glances over he sees the light catch off the badge pinned to his shirt.

Sheriff's deputy, then. He's probably got plenty of more important things to do – things that don't involve breaking up stupid, drunken brawls with the town freak.

"You got anything else you want, officer?" Daryl bites out, and when he glances down at himself he feels his muscles tense and his stomach drop. One of the assholes must have ripped his shirt without him realizing, and he can see the front of his binder through the torn opening. There's no way for him to hide it, and no way the man hasn't seen it.

"Think you'd be comfortable with me walking you home?" The cop glances at his chest and something like understanding dawns in those eyes. They soften with the rest of him, steel melting away and leaving behind someone who is relaxed and gentle when he steps closer and lowers his voice. He's speaking only for Daryl now, his words interspersed by the rain, and the faintest scent of something spicy and woodsy makes the younger man want to press closer and inhale a stronger dose of such an addicting combination.

"Don't need yer damn protection," Daryl mutters back, but he's not ready to move away yet. He should be stepping back, should be keeping a safe distance between them, because he's has plenty of run-ins with the cops of King County thanks to Merle, and few of them ever ended well.

"Who said anything about protection? I think you're more than capable of holding your own. I was thinking something more of the lines of friendly conversation."

"The fuck would we even have to _converse_ about?"

Rather than getting angry, the older man chuckles and lays a hand on Daryl's shoulder. He doesn't tense up like he once would have, like he probably still should, considering the circumstances. There's something about the officer that isn't making him feel the need to lash out. There's something _safe_ about him, something that keeps Daryl calm and relaxed as he tucks his hands into his soaked pockets and ignores the rain dripping from his eyelashes.

"It's always nice to meet someone who understands, especially when you feel like no one ever could."

It probably takes him a little longer than it should, but eventually it clicks and Daryl looks up sharply. His eyes widen, taking in every inch of the other man's face – searching, _hoping_ , and finally he meets those bright blue eyes and pulls his lip between his teeth.

"You?" he whispers, and the officer smiles as he dips his head in a nod.

"Me," he murmurs, and suddenly it's like looking into the future. It's not a perfect one, because he looks nothing like the image he's staring at, but it's a _this will be you one day_ kind of euphoria that makes his throat feel tight and his hands shake subtly.

"I," Daryl starts, and he has to stop and clear his throat. Water is running down their faces and their clothes are plastered to them uncomfortably, but in this moment, Daryl has never felt more eager to talk. "I think I'd like some conversation on m'way home."

Full lips pull into a smile, the corners of those eyes crinkling, and the deputy squeezes his shoulder before taking his hand away and motioning into the night around them.

"Lead the way."

 

\--

 

Rick is a new hire by the King County sheriff's department – a transfer from big, bustling Atlanta. He's been in town for almost three weeks, settling in and learning who everyone is – who he needs to look out for and who's actually harmless.

"How long have you been taking T?" Daryl finally blurts out when he can't stand it anymore. He hadn't even _realized_ , and he's a little in awe when he looks Rick up and down from the corner of his eye.

"Thirteen years," Rick replies easily, smiling when he glances over and catches Daryl looking. He ducks his head shyly, feeling his cheeks warm, but the man says nothing about it. When they finally make it to his house, Daryl expects Rick to leave it at that, but the deputy follows him right up to his front stoop.

"D'ya wanna come in an' dry off a bit?" Flipping his keys in and out of his palm, Daryl tries not to worry his lower lip as he waits for Rick to answer. No matter what he may have said before, knowing they're the same doesn't make him obligated to stay. Besides that, with the way the rain is still coming down, there's no point in him _drying off_ when he still has to walk all the way back to his cruiser.

"I'd like that, yes."

Surprised, Daryl tightens his hold on his keys and swallows before giving a jerky nod and unlocking the door. He kicks his boots off inside the door, same as always, and watches as Rick toes his own shoes off and leaves them in the entryway before following Daryl to the kitchen.

"How long have you been taking T shots?" he asks curiously once he's leaning against the island. He could be looking around, taking in the decor, but instead those soul-searching eyes are only interested in Daryl. He should feel trapped by that gaze, but there's no sense of being pinned and dissected, no judgmental probing to find a weakness and exploit it.

"Three months." It's said quietly, but it's not because Daryl is ashamed. He's just not used to talking about this with anyone but his doctor, and to have someone like Rick, who _gets it_ asking him about something that is such a big part of him makes him hungry for more. "Have... have ya had any of th' surgeries yet?"

"Both top and bottom," Rick answers. "Scarring on my chest wasn't near as bad as I thought it'd be. What kind of binder are you using?"

"Some cheap thing off eBay." Daryl shrugs and plays with his fingers, taking a deep breath, and before he can lose his nerve he reaches back and pulls his shirt off so Rick can see.

It's not a perfect fit – his shoulders have always been broad, even before, and his chest isn't exactly small. He hadn't measured himself right either, so the binder is a little too tight. It pinches him uncomfortably if he wears it for too long, and sometimes it leaves bruises, but he _doesn't_ _care_ so long as it accomplishes what he wants. It's only a half-tank, so it stops just before his ribs end, leaving his navel exposed for Rick to see the telling scars there when Daryl slowly sets his ruined shirt aside.

"How long do you usually wear it for?"

Rick stands up slowly and comes closer, looking at Daryl in a way that no one ever has before. He doesn't try to reach out and touch, just tilts his head as he studies where the straps press in too tightly, where the edge digs in under his arm, and Daryl watches the way he frowns when he sees the shadow of an old bruise.

"From when I get dressed ta when I go ta bed. Usually 'bout twelve ta fourteen hours."

"Daryl, that's _dangerous_." Rick shakes his head, and he looks honestly distressed. "It's not safe to bind for that long, not when it's clearly causing damage."

"M'not gonna stop bindin'," Daryl snaps, drawing back and feeling the heavy anger of betrayal stirring. He thought Rick was supposed to _understand_.

"I'm not telling you to," the man promises. He finally reaches out to touch the edge of the binder, his fingers warm enough against the side of his bicep that Daryl shivers. "There are better brands out there, though. Ones that won't bruise you like this. There are some that are made with a light, breathable material, and you can wear those for longer periods of time."

Daryl doesn't know why he does it – if it's because Rick is like him and he really does understand, or if it's because they've known each other for an hour and the man is already trying to find ways to help him that won't end in pain. Maybe it's because the cop is handsome and kind, and Daryl has gone twenty-two years without a hint of kindness from anyone. Hell, maybe it's just his hormones acting up. Whatever it is, one second he's leaning against the counter and the next he's pressed against Rick's firm, lean body; the sheriff hat knocked to the ground and one hand threading into warm, damp curls as the other fists the front of the baggy shirt.

And then they're kissing, their mouths moving together with a synchronization that shouldn't be so natural between two people who have only just met, and Daryl ignores the pain from his injured lip as he feels the older man responding. One of Rick's hands settles against the middle of his back, keeping him close, while the other cups the side of Daryl's face and angles his head into a better position. Daryl makes a soft, desperate sound when Rick's mouth opens against his and his tongue presses against his lower lip gently, requesting but not demanding. Rick echoes the noise with a groan of his own when Daryl's lips part, his tongue meeting Rick's shyly as a shudder runs through him.

Rick is the one to pull back, but he doesn't go far. He presses their foreheads together, looking into Daryl's eyes and stroking a thumb against the beauty mark just off to the side of his upper lip.

"I think we're going a little fast here, don't you?" he chuckles, but he's still not stepping away. He's rubbing their noses together, kissing Daryl quickly again and leaving his lips buzzing and his body thrumming.

"Are you gonna get in trouble fer leavin’ yer post?" Daryl whispers. Rick shakes his head, smiling a bit sheepishly, and Daryl has to kiss him again.

"I was off duty and headed home when I heard the fight," he admits. "I was going to make sure you were okay; see if you needed medical attention or wanted to press charges. It's a hate crime, even if I didn't realize it at first."

"So why all of this, then?" He can’t help the pulse of satisfied pride when Rick’s first impression of seeing him is exactly what Daryl has worked so hard for.

Rick's other hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, fingers massaging his scalp gently until Daryl relaxes bonelessly against the older man. "There's something about you, Daryl. I don't know how to put it into words, not so soon. There's _something_ , though, and I'd like to see where it takes me. If you don't want that, then it's completely understandable. If it was a heat of the moment thing and you want to forget about it, I can try to do that, too."

"And if I don't want to forget about it?" Daryl looks up at Rick, looks at his kind eyes and his gentle features and the way his curls are sticking up wildly after having Daryl's hand in them, and he feels a happiness unlike any he's felt since the first time his doctor pushed the needle into his thigh and his journey truly began.

"What do _you_ want to do, Daryl?" Rick combs his fingers through Daryl's hair, the gesture fond and hinting at possibly being something more, if he’d want it to be. There is no pressure, no demand for him to choose correctly or suffer the consequences. Whatever he decides will be _his_ choice, made on _his_ terms, and Rick will accept any of them so long as it makes _Daryl_ happy.

It's a huge thing to realize, a huge turn in a life that has already changed so much for the better, and as he looks up at Rick and meets those tender, patient eyes, Daryl finds himself smiling shyly and leaning in for a kiss.

"I want whatever this gives us," he whispers, their lips barely touching. "I want to know where this journey will go."

Rick kisses him, and it's not hard. It's not demanding, or possessive, or dominating. It's not a man staking his claim, but rather a tender promise and a vow, his words nearly soundless when he answers. Daryl hears him loud and clear, though; their hands finding one another and their fingers interlocking as their noses bump and the distant sound of the rain starts to die down.

"Lead the way."


	3. Brianna (Angels Exist)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never forget that you are loved! Speaking for me I love you, you are a part of my heart and will always be!!!!
> 
> I heard ya like The Smiths! 
> 
> How Soon Is Now was my inspiration =)

Angels do appear in downpours  
Of despair, harm and rain  
Their wings untouched by the sadness of the world  
Their garments are not always white  
Unwrinkled or new  
Sometimes they are human beings  
Created for the sole purpose  
Of saving you  
I have been beaten  
My joy mingled with the scrape of concrete  
My body a torn mixture of black and blue  
I have been beaten  
For the way my body decided to present itself  
For the way it decided it was more male than woman  
Cruel fists beat so hard against me  
I thought I'd die buried between rain and asphalt  
So much has already been taken  
Theives and robbers sniffing out what little I have  
I cannot afford to lose  
Cannot afford the shame being colored into my skin  
I screamed out a prayer  
With the last of my strength I fought to be heard  
This is how I know angels appear  
This is how I know angels are real  
He heard me  
He swooped down without need of wings  
Scooped me up and carried me away  
Gentle hands removed my bloodshed  
Low rumbles of love soothed the ache and shame  
He ran graceful fingers through my hair  
Sang notes to me I'd never been blessed with  
As his clothing disappeared  
I saw the same markings etched in his skin  
The same shame that had been erased  
His body had decided what mine had  
Had decided to be different  
There was no fear in those heavenly blue eyes  
No sign of pain from this world  
There was a light about him  
That engulfed me  
Painted me in the same glow  
He kissed me then  
Lips soft and smooth like silk  
I knew without doubt or uncertainty  
That my love for him would never cease  
Because he _understands_  
He knows the struggles I've lived through  
He will never leave me  
Nor will I leave him  
This is how I know  
I _know_  
Angels appear  
This is how I know angels are real  
This is how I know they love  
This is how I know they exist in rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I love you Ellis. The world is much brighter with you in it ♡♡♡


End file.
